After Life
by AfroGeekGoddess
Summary: Grieving!John, post-Reichenbach, pre-return. A chronicle of his slow descent into the madness of grief. First story of a 3-part, post-Reichenbach arc. Angst, loneliness; dark, disturbing moments.
1. Sand and Water

**_After Life_ is my chronicling of John's descent into grief after Reichenbach.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and John aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to feed them and take them for walks and give them back when I'm done.**

**This story was inspired by filming photographs from _The Reichenbach Fall_, however, since I began writing this before FALL aired, it is not BBC!canon-compliant. **

**Content warning: blood, death, falling, disturbing dreams.**

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><p>The first night After, John walks down Baker Street at 4 a.m. The rain, which began the day before and not stopped since, is now a fine mist, glinting in the streetlights like shards of amber. Underneath the sound of the rain is the scraping of his shoes against the pavement, the faint rush of cars streets away.<p>

He trudges step by step, his leg throbbing and raw, his hair matted and dark from the rain and blood that soak him to the skin. Only a few lights are on in the neighboring flats, this time when the old night feels too late and the new day too early. He looks up at their empty flat window, the hollow blackness behind the yellowed curtains.

He fingers in his pocket for keys, pushes open their door, the knocker banging against the dark wood as he closes it. In the hallway, he strips off his black field jacket, hanging it haphazardly in the closet. The seventeen steps creak under him, feeling the strange weight of only a single set of feet.

John stops at their door, the door he first encountered years Before, when he climbed the stairs like a man twice his age. The knob is a cold ball of brass in his palm as he slowly turns it.

The flat is dark, save for thin streams of streetlight casting the room in a sickly yellow glow. The air smells of dust, slightly moldy books, faint hints of sulfur from one of (his) experiments. The room feels odd to John, the edges of the place brittle and alien, as if the furniture and books belonged somewhere else, with someone else.

Leaving the lights off, he feels his way to the mantel via muscle memory, well-honed from sneaking around combat zones and avoiding (his) odd chemistry experiments. He drops his keys into the small bowl next to (his) skull, and pulls his Browning from the small of his back, setting it beside the bones.

His fingers quiver as he peels off his blood-stained, oatmeal jumper, his ragged, red-caked fingernails catching in the thick woolen knit. He kicks away his shoes and socks, leaving them in a crooked heap next to his clothing.

Eyes half-closed, John wanders to the couch, still in his jeans, crawling slowly on top of the cushions, curling his tired limbs around himself, as if protecting his vital organs from attack. His bones ache, his breath wet and tired, a thin, thready sound in the quiet flat.

He stares down at his empty hands, still smeared with (his) blood. His body feels hollow, as if someone had scraped it out with their fingernails. The pain inside throbs with a vaporous fire, blazing flashes of memory: (his) silver eyes, blown wide and still; (his) flailing arms against the sky; (his) cold skin under his fingers; and he shuts his eyes against the terrible brightness—

_(no no no it hurts too much I can't please God let me keep this hollow empty feeling it's clean and cool inside I can't feel this now God) _

He shivers, his teeth chattering and his skin shaking despite the warmth of the room. Slung over the back of the sofa is (his) blue dressing gown, carelessly draped over the leather cushions. He wraps the smooth silk over his trembling body, the fabric cocooning him in soft folds, the sweet smell of (his) almond shampoo enveloping him. One of the sleeves hangs down over his shoulder, spooning around his arm, and he grasps the edge with his fingers, clutching it tight to his chest, as if holding an invisible hand.

_(please God let me forget)_

For the first time in two days, he sleeps.

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><p><em>He sinks like a stone upon the water, a rough rock suddenly flung by a strong and vicious hand. He doesn't remember how long he falls.<em>

_He is all stupid, clumsy, dead weight, collapsing in the silt and sand, his jagged edges shooting up from the muck. His eyes and mouth are open, screaming, burning. _

_Above him, a murky figure, dark and pale all at once. He claws at the shape on the other side, fracturing it into a million vibrating pieces. No matter what he does, he cannot reach it. _

_He lets the rapids cover him, and muffle it all. _

_The weight of the water slowly, slowly plucks away pieces of him, granule by granule, down to the smooth nub of his heart, still beating._

_By morning, there is nothing left of him._

For the next three years, every night After, this is all John ever dreams.

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><p><strong>AN: The title is taken from the same-titled song by Beth Nielsen Chapman. <strong>

**Comments posted before December 15, 2011 reflect the first edition of this story. My thanks to the amazing Mirith Griffin for her gracious beta skills and unflagging support during this revision (go read her fics; it's a moral imperative).**

**Thank you for reading!**


	2. Gathering the Sounds

**Content warning: grief, funerals.**

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><p>Three days After, after the memorial service—closed casket; Mycroft saw to that—after Lestrade, Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, and even Sally Donovan promised to check in on him, John stands alone at (his) room, watching the slice of light streaming through the open door.<p>

The service swirled around John in a blur of sensations, flooding him with exhaustion: the endless times he said _thank __you __for __coming, __thank __you __for __your __support, __I'm __sure __you'll __miss __(him), __(he) __was __my __colleague__/__flatmate__/__friend, __yes, __life __will __never __be __the __same. _The flurry of hands he shook and people he hugged: (his) mother, old clients, more members of the homeless network. Sarah's constant touch on his shoulder, asking _are __you __all __right__/__do __you __need __anything__/__someone __else __is __here __to __see __you. _The incessant urge to bolt for the bathroom and vomit up the four cups of tea he'd drunk. The sickening, sweet smell of roses, peace lilies, and carnations, the arrangements a miniature forest of grief.

Still in his suit, John stands at the edge, fingering the corner of the door jamb. The air is brittle and stiff, an unearthly silence settling over the room, as if it were a mausoleum. He slowly crosses the threshold, stepping inside (his) space. Lightly, he brushes his hands over (his) things as he moves through the room, feeling their momentary solidity:

(his) bottles of cologne on the dresser, the faint scents of sandalwood and clove slipping outside the glass. (His) shirts, piles of cool silk and fine cotton, hung carelessly from the closet doorknob. Taxidermied birds and snakes, jars of flower specimens, racks of pinned insects strewn on the desk. Stacks and stacks of books surrounding the bed, a fortress of thoughts to protect (him) while (he) slept.

John stops at the side of the bed, the black comforter pooled in a messy heap on the floor. In the bedsheets are the dips and curves (his) body had made in sleep, the dent in the silk pillowcase where (his) head once rested. John traces the ripples in the dove grey sheets with his hands, the fabric cool and smooth.

His leg aches underneath him, the faint tremors growing stronger, and he leans more on his silver cane. He is so tired. It is work to grieve. It is his life's work now.

Slowly, John lies down on the bed, fitting himself into the spaces where (his) body had lain, the springs creaking under his tired weight. He sinks down into the grooves, legs spread long, arms pulled in close to his chest. His skin prickles, praying for any touch other than his own skin against itself.

He turns his face to the pillowcase, and breathes—

and (his) smell of black orchids and jasmine tea shoots down into the deep, dark center of his soul. He feels (his) breath rumbling in his chest, (his) long arms cradling his tired bones, (his) pale, gentle fingers caressing his skin from the inside out, (his) heart beating beside his own, (his) spirit slipping into every pore until he feels the tickle of dark curls on his face, (his) lips curled inside his mouth, warm and fleeting and alive, and something breaks in John, sounding like a bell.

He begins to tremble, a bubble of wet pain rising up through him, each cell in his body aching as if from the bends. The pain stops in the center of his chest, smashing through his ribs, until he finally begins to weep for the first time Since, his tears running down his cheeks into his ears, filling them with the choked sound of his grief.

His breath hitches in his throat, the cry like that of a drowning man. He presses his face to the pillowcase, inhaling (him) again and again, until the only thing he can smell are his own tears, turning the fabric a sodden, cold mess. His hands flutter against his chest, pushing against his heart as if trying to press the life back into it.

When he is finally silent and spent, his face is raw, his eyes nearly swollen shut, his voice nothing more than a ragged whisper. His gaze drifts up to the ceiling, the jagged cracks in the paint. They look like tiny, burst blood vessels, or a dried-up river bed, the cracks shattering the room apart.

John lies like this, staring blankly at the broken pieces, floating alone on the sea of grey sheets, long after the sun has disappeared.

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><p><strong>AN: The tile references a line from Sonia Sanchez's <em>Poem #3<em>.**

**"In the Arc of Your Mallet," the previous version of Chapter 2, will be reposted as a standalone fic, outside of the _After Life_ universe.**


	3. Details in the Fabric

**Content warning: death, emotional flashbacks, cutting, hallucinations, lots of blood**

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><p>John knows his British Army Browning L9A1 semi-automatic high-power 9mm pistol by heart. The nubby texture of the black handle, the way it hangs in his hand, into the grooves of his palms. How the gun feels and smells after it's fired, like a hot, burning stone. How to oil it and clean it, so that the pieces fit and slide and flow into each other until the gun is not a mechanism, but a living organism. The way his finger settles perfectly over the trigger, as if it were made for his hands alone.<p>

It's only a simple lever, a small piece of metal, almost insignificant compared to the frightening maw of the muzzle and the pent-up explosions inside each bullet. But press a finger against it, and the world turns to fire.

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><p>The first thing to go is the telly. For three months After, John doesn't touch it, declining Mrs. Hudson's invitations to watch Connie Prince reruns, classic <em>Doctor <em>_Who_, James Bond marathons, and all the bits of crap telly they had once watched when not on a case.

He turns to the radio to fill the flat with sound: talk radio, the mindless chatter of debates flying back and forth in a pale shadow of (his) feverish deductions. He leaves it on all day, even while at the surgery, or out for groceries, the low murmuring like background radiation. Every time he returns to Baker Street, for one moment, he can almost pretend (his) voice is welcoming him home.

Two months After, John tries switching the station, sliding the dial across the frequencies. His hand stops on a fragment of classical music: Bach, _Partita __in __A __Minor_, solo violin.

The bright, sweet notes turn sickly and sharp, piercing through his lungs, shattering his breath. His heart stretches into thin shafts of steel, curled tight within himself, wound over a frame like a body on a rack. He feels (his) long, pale hands press into his body, fingering over the brittle bones of his spine, every bone cracking in a terrible melody. (His) hand draws the violin bow over his skin, the blade singing blood with every vibrating stroke as (he) plays his grief.

After one solid minute of not breathing, he turns the knob back to the arguing voices.

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><p>He returns to the surgery one month After, his days filled with disease: sore throats, watery eyes, weakened bodies. He touches the skins of rows and rows of people, all day long, feeling for pulses, listening for breath, never hearing the one breath that mattered. On most days, he eats lunch alone in his consulting room; an apple and sandwich; a carton of cold, leftover takeaway. On Hard days, he works straight through his break, letting others' sickness fill the empty space inside him.<p>

One day, he treats a patient with signs of influenza: a young woman, pale porcelain skin, thick black curls. He takes her temperature, listens to her breath, runs his hands over her throat to examine her lymph nodes.

She swipes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering on her temple. Her nails are painted the color of burnt blood, red flecks so deep they are almost black against her skin.

Suddenly, a spot of blood blooms from the side of her alabaster face, spreads down her neck, staining her hair even darker, spilling onto John's hands. Her eyes grow flat and glassy, her irises blown to black holes. He smells copper and pavement, rain and wool; he hears the echoes of police sirens; and his heart seizes in his chest, his mind racebabbling _(oh __God __there's __s__o __much __blood __I __can't __stop __it __please __God __let __him __live)_ as her fragile lips shudder and grow cold under his touch until she is absolutely still.

John squeezes his eyes shut, taking slow, deep, ragged breaths. His fingers twitch against her neck, suddenly feeling her pulse. He stops, opens his eyes, blinks. Her body is pink with fever; her grey eyes, open and questioning; her face, unmarred. He draws his shaking hands away from her, staring at his unstained skin.

John sends the woman off with a prescription for fluids and rest, then tells Sarah he is taking his lunch hour early. After closing the door again, he turns toward the window, staring through the white curtains. The streets and shops and cars outside thrum their life through the veins of the city, a faint humming beyond the thick glass.

In the exam room's small sink, he washes his hands in the hottest water he can stand, lathering with the antibacterial soap until they are covered in white, rinsing and lathering again and again.

After five washes straight, his hands are two fiery, welted wounds.

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><p>The razor blades skitter over the kitchen floor, clattering around John's bare feet. He holds the tattered cardboard box in which they lived, a piece of his army medical kit, 100 slivers of medical-grade steel.<p>

It is four months After, four months since he last threw himself into the paths of bombs, guns, and knives. The wounds he receives now are all pedestrian: paper cuts, simple scrapes; this time, it was a grease burn on his arm from the bacon splattering on the stove. All he wanted was a bandage to dress it and a blade to cut the fabric from the roll, but as he picked up the box, the thin line of his tremors started again.

He clenches his fist, stretches it out, trying to loosen the quivering kink inside his fingers. Bending down, he plucks one of the double-edged blades from the floor, where it had landed perilously close to his left foot. He pulls a roll of medical tape from his kit, cuts off a few pieces, and tapes the split box back together.

The thin blades trap him in the middle of the kitchen. Most of them are flat, but clusters of razors lie toppled on one another here and there, like houses of cards.

Crouching down, clutching the box in his hand, he slowly turns in concentric circles, picking up each blade and placing it back inside. Halfway through, his bad leg starts to cramp and twitch underneath him, but he keeps rotating, shifting his weight back and forth, swaying to an invisible rhythm.

The last blade finally in his hand, he slips it into the box with the others, offering up their edges. As he stands, John casts his eyes around, taking stock of his position. He is surrounded: (his) violin and bow; (his) yellow smiley-face on the wall, the traces of bullet holes still visible; (his) tea mug, still on the counter, a thin residue of tea at the bottom; (his) throngs and throngs of books and articles and encyclopedias on botany and beekeeping.

He stares down at the razors in his hands. The blades fit so snugly together in the box, their edges so fine, that light disappears when it hits them, making the box appear lined in the blackest of velvet.

Slowly, John scrapes his finger over the razors, first against the grain, then with it, letting the small, sharp teeth draw blood with their tender bites, filling the box with his blood until there is nothing left to feel.

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><p><strong>AN: The "racebabbling" phrase comes from the Stevie Wonder song, "Race Babbling." The title references the same-titled song by Jason Mraz.<strong>


	4. Every Dark Grain

**Content warning: ashes, urns, a semi-graphic description of the cremation process, disturbing imagery.**

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><p>One week After, John brings (his) ashes home from the crematorium.<p>

As they always had, they take a taxi together back to Baker Street, John cradling the small, sturdy cardboard box on his lap. Only when he is back in the flat, the box on the kitchen table, does John open it, pull out the cotton packing, and carefully slide out the urn.

Mycroft had spared no expense: black Italian marble, hand-carved, polished impossibly smooth. The lines of the urn flute softly at the base, an inverted teardrop. Veins of dove grey and deep violet crackle against the shiny black like lightning. In small, carved letters, along the top of the lid, (his) name, birth and death dates.

He holds his palm against the stone, the marble sucking away the heat. He runs his thumb over the carving, feeling his flesh dip into the empty spaces of the letters.

John knew the process of cremation, both in the abstract (research for a case) and in the reality (Afghanistan, IED vs. truck). The glowing red body, muscles contracting from the heat, swells, steams, bursts, then finally catches fire, the brain the last to burn, down to a piece of skull here, length of tibia there. Bones raked from the hearth, pulverized to gunpowder, bagged, labeled, and stored.

The world's only consulting detective, the man who filled his life to the brim with wild, dangerous delight, reduced to nothing more than three kilograms of silvery debris.

Slowly, he unscrews the lid of the urn. The fragments of bone—bits of phosphate, calcium, sulfate—are surprisingly colorful; crumbs of cornflower, mostly cement grey, some bright white and others hinting of amber. He dips his left hand into the ashes, cool bits of sandpaper against his skin.

Softly, he pulses his fingers into the bones, opening and closing his hand slightly, as if he were stroking someone's hair. The shards clink against the marble, a sound like the tinkling of windchimes. The sensation is close enough to sand that John finds himself tracing lines in it, as if drawing pictures in the wet surf with a stick.

John had always wanted to get inside, to crack open the pale, cool exterior and understand how that magnificent brain worked, to witness that beating, pulsating heart, to get to the very center.

Holding a piece of (his) skeleton in his fingers, never in his life did he think he would be this terribly, horribly close.

One of (his) experiments is still on the table, an assortment of jars, moldy petri dishes, pipettes, unlabeled colored liquids. Among the detritus are several miniature test tubes. John picks up one and dips it into the urn, scooping up some of the bones, then seals it tight with the rubber stopper.

John presses the vial into his fist, letting his skin warm the bones from the outside in, then slips the vial into his jeans pocket, the glass a comfortable weight against his right leg. Turning to the urn, he wipes the surface of the ashes smooth again, blank and silent, and screws the marble lid closed.

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><p>For two weeks After, John doesn't cook. The freezer is stocked with casseroles, stews, and soups in an assortment of plastic containers, sandwiched in between foil-wrapped body parts. Between Mrs. Hudson's, Sarah's, and Molly's efforts, the only thing John needs to make himself is tea. Even Angelo brings by takeaways of lasagna and meatballs, <em>on <em>_the __house._

It is a relief to know where his next meal is coming from, to not worry about the unusually overwhelming tasks of selecting ingredients, reading a recipe, handling a knife.

Tonight it is pulled pork noodle casserole, courtesy of Sarah's slow cooker: long strips of flesh, breaking at the seams, mixed through with egg noodles and tomato sauce. John eats in the kitchen, stands over the sink with his bowl, his body tense and taut. He is still not used to being able to finish a meal in peace, expecting at any second to be dragged off into danger by a pair of pale hands.

The ragged clumps of meat drip blotches of sauce in the sink, bits of red spattering up onto his jumper. Among the meat and noodles are small, hard chunks, and he pokes at them with his fork: bones from the pork that Sarah had missed.

His hand goes to the vial still in his pocket, and he traces the shape of it with his fingers, the glass hard and unforgiving.

John ate bones once as a child, the soft, brittle bones in tinned salmon, so fragile they shattered when he bit them. He remembers how they tickled his throat when he swallowed, how it seemed so strange to be able to chew something that once held a body firmly in place.

He picks up the lump of bone, and puts it on his tongue. It is like soggy pumice under his teeth, the granules scraping the inside of his mouth, a sensation not altogether unpleasant. It takes him a full minute to chew the last bits of the animal's bones down to a dry nothingness.

(His) ashes are silent, waiting.

Slowly, John picks out the rest of the bones from his bowl and eats them one by one, chewing them away, leaving the flesh behind.

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><p><strong>AN: The title references a line from the Ellen Bass poem, "Eating the Bones."<strong>


	5. The Frost Killing Hour

**Content warning: threats of violence, vague suicidal ideation, painful imagery**

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><p>For 46 seconds, every morning After, John Watson forgets.<p>

The light streaming through his window changes: fogged, hazy, cloaked by rain; other times, sharpened by snow or summer heat. Sparrows on the sill, icicles on the eaves. His blankets: twisted tourniquets around his legs or a wrinkled mess on the floor; rarely, still draped softly over his body.

To his waking mind, the new world is dark, muffled, cocooned in black silk, unconsciousness slowly unwrapping itself from his body: right toes, then the left; calves, thighs, pelvis, chest; heart, arms, shoulders, throat.

His skin, dusted with fine golden hairs, stretches into the morning with calmness and utter ease. His heart beats blood to the tips of his fingers, pulsing back and forth in a four-count rhythm.

His body is eager to come out of the dreamtime and start again, every cell glitteringly, achingly alive, ready to greet the fresh sunlight. The world is hungry to welcome him back, beckons him with the promise of quicksilver in his blood, and his body wants to say _yes __yes __yes_.

The dark veil of sleep finally uncurls from his head, and John opens his eyes. The room is full of amber fire as the sun begins to rise, splaying fingers of light across his skin. Outside, he hears the faint rumblings of early morning drivers; doves cooing against the window.

What he does not hear is anyone in the kitchen, the clinking of beakers and mugs, the sharp whistle of a teakettle. He does not hear the clicking of pale fingers against a phone's keyboard, nor the soft swish of blue silk and navy wool, nor the strings of a violin being stroked into beauty.

When he remembers why, his hand begins to shake.

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><p>Two weeks After, John is at Tesco's, two packages of biscuits in his hands: one box of lemon shortbread, his favorite; the other, dark chocolate digestives, (his) favorite, the only ones he had bought for the last year.<p>

John turns the packages over, reading each ingredient list for the fifth time, the letters morphing from words to unreadable shapes. The boxes are oddly heavy, the labels sticking to his sweaty hands. His body feels stuffed with clay, leaden and cold, unable to breathe. The piped-in supermarket music trickles into his ear like water, masking the sound of his racing heart.

The aisles close in on him, rows and rows of decisions pouring over him as he stands alone, shaking under the weight of them: dried or canned beans; organic or regular tomatoes; skim, 1%, 2%, whole; Earl Grey, darjeeling, chamomile, mint. It had been easier Before, when all of John's choices revolved around (his) needs: Which tea and biscuits to buy? (His) favorites. Whose texts to answer first? (His). Where to run? At (his) side. Whose life to save? (His) before his own.

Now the smallest of decisions is a flat, heavy stone thrown on his chest, smothering him: whether or not to get out of bed / get dressed / bother eating / continue breathing.

Slowly, he places both boxes back on the shelf, leaves his basket in the middle of the aisle, and walks out without buying anything.

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><p>Three weeks After, John is on the Tube, headed for Sarah's, the thin metal car flying through the belly of the city. He is wedged among what feels like everyone in London at once: a girl reading a thick paperback, a man slurping coffee from an oversized mug, students with backpacks slung like battle armor on their backs, the tinny bass notes from people's headphones, disconnected half-conversations from cell phones, the clicking of the wheels against the tracks,<p>

the slide-jerk-stop-shuffle-jerk-slide motion from station to station; and all through it, John stands alone, slightly on tiptoe, propped up on his silver cane, his arm almost too short to reach the handrail overhead, his body pressed, jarred, jostled from all sides, skin prickling with tiny shards of grief under his flesh, invisible bits of sorrow no one else can feel and no one can remove,

each bang and crash pushing them further into him, sharpening his mind, and John sees, for a moment he _sees_ what (he) saw _all __the __time_: the simpering, stupid little masses, burying their noses in trash books and crap telly and meaningless connections, whining and whimpering about _who __slept __with __who_ and all the boring, dull, predictable pieces of triviality that distract everyone from the fact they're all going to die someday, their eyes will freeze and their hearts will melt and their blood will settle at the bottom of their bodies and they'll rot away into the earth and nothing,

nothing else will ever matter more than these precious pieces of life, and John aches to shout all of this to them, to grab each of them by their fucking faces and hit them until they bleed, until they hurt, until they truly feel this sacred, horrible knowledge he feels all the time and wishes he never knew, that flays him alive from the inside out.

John stands ramrod-straight, sucks his teeth, shuts his eyes. He clenches and flexes his fist in time with the rocking of the car. Open, shut. Open, shut. Open, shut. The train rattles on through the darkness.

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><p><strong>AN: The title references a line in Natalie Merchant's "My Skin."<strong>


	6. So Darkness I Became

**Content warning: falling, blood, strange and disturbing imagery.**

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><p>Three weeks after the night at the pool, John rooted through a dusty cardboard box at the back of his closet, UNI NOTES marked in black felt-tip. Digging through spiral notebooks and worn binders, he found his prize at the very bottom: his old astronomy textbook, a photo of the Horsehead Nebula on the cover. The book was somewhat outdated—it still listed Pluto as a planet—but it would do. No more <em>not-knowing-the-earth-goes-round-the-sun<em> allowed.

As a child, John often dreamed of the moon and stars, played spaceman, fashioning futuristic clothes out of tape and tin foil. Paperbacks by Bradbury, Sagan, and Asimov nestled comfortably on the shelves among his anatomy and biology tomes while at uni, where he squeezed an astronomy course into his pre-med schedule.

In the cool nights of Afghanistan, he sometimes stayed awake until morning, his sidearm at the ready, watching the sky spiral its light around him. Tracing the lines of bears and warriors, queens and gods, John almost found peace from the blood of the day.

John sat on his bed, sliced off a length of silver gift wrap. Centering the book on the blank paper, he remembered one of his astronomy professor's first lectures: _no __vacuum __is __perfect, __not __even __in __space. __Even __in __the __black, __gaping __voids __between __galaxies, __a __few __hydrogen __particles __linger; __occasionally, __after __thousands __of __years, __finally __touching._

John knew what it meant to have a piece of him adrift in the darkness. Even among his rugby buddies, arms locked in a scrum, pushing and pulling as one unit; his lovers, their hearts coming close-to-touching; or his comrades, their very blood in his hands, John had still felt alone, the bright center of him untouched—

—until the arcs of their lives converged that first day at Bart's, when John was swept up in that mysterious man's deep, glorious gravity, pulsing and throbbing and _alive. _From that day on, they were a double star, forever spinning around one another, positive and negative balanced perfectly, bonded together against the dark.

John taped shut the last edge of the paper, smoothing his hands over the silvery surface. When he heard his friend's footsteps coming up the stairs, he smiled.

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><p>There is Before, and there is After, and then there is The Moment:<p>

The A&E waiting room That Day is white and silver, white walls with silver handles on the doors, and garish orange chairs, all plastic in rows and rows. There is a pot of tepid coffee in the corner and the blaring of the telly and the walls filled with soft, pastel drawings of trellises and meadows. There is the carpet, spinning in checked patterns to hide the dirt tracked into it, the smell of death and sickness.

There is Mycroft, standing with his umbrella, his necktie perfectly composed, his body tall and stiff, and there is a twitch above his right eye, something breaking behind them, soft and wet, like the sheen of a puddle in the street.

There is John's breath, racing frantically through his lungs. There is his hair, matted and dark, drops of rain shining on his eyelashes. His eyes dart from side to side, wide and wild, searching every crevice of the room for a set of black curls. His hands, sticky and damp with his blood, begin to tremble.

"John..."

_(no)_

(He) was going to be all right, that's what he promised in the rain, holding onto (his) face, (he) was going to be all right, when they took (him) in the ambulance, (he) was going to be fine, it was going to be all fine, he could fix it, he was a doctor, he could fix it.

Mycroft reaches out tentatively, his face wrinkling and dark. "John—"

_**(no)**_

Something falls from the shelf inside John, shatters on the ground into jagged pieces, the sound sharp and cracking. He tries to step back from Mycroft's touch, but his leg trembles, his muscles burnt out, collapsing. The plastic moulded chair buckles under his weight as he falls back against the seat, clenches his eyes shut, fine tremors snaking over his body as he shakes apart—

_(god you can't have let me live to give me this life and take it back again (he) was every piece of me and you took (him) from me, (he) held me up to the light (his) light and you're taking (him) from me and I'm falling and I can't please god **no**)_

"John." Mycroft's voice is brittle and still. "Sherlock is gone."

And at these words, a white hot pain sears straight through the center of John like a falling meteor, blazing through every molecule in his body, severing every blood vessel, setting every nerve in his body on fire.

His heart is a sudden black hole, the 10,000 memories of (him) lashed to his soul shuddering against the fierce gravity inside him, wrenched from the underside of his flesh, screaming and ripped apart, swallowed by the abyss.

When John opens his eyes, there is darkness. He shivers in the sudden wind, long shadows enveloping him. All the golden threads holding his body together collapse in a broken, jagged heap, fraying apart into the dark.

He wants to breathe, to cry, to scream, but his lungs are missing. He tries to stand, but his limbs are as empty as wax casts, his edges red and raw. In the frozen vacuum of his chest, the molecules that were once his heart drift, alone.

At the center of his being is a pair of empty eyes: deep, black, swirling stars ringed with silver. He crawls to the edge, staring down into the chasm, the whispering dark calling his name. He dives under, takes a final breath, and lets himself drown.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The title references a lyric from Florence + The Machine's "Cosmic Love" (recommended by the amazing Mirith Griffin). The "falling from a shelf" metaphor is taken from Zora Neale Hurston's <em>Their <em>_Eyes __Were __Watching __God_.**


	7. The Weight of Feathers

**Content warning: death, funerals.**

* * *

><p>Ten days After, John stands at their sitting room table, the morning post in his hand, another sheaf of condolence cards. The letters come mostly from London, others from as far away as America, Greece, and Russia. More notes come pouring in at <em>The <em>_Science __of __Deduction_, dozens of messages flooding the forum queue.

John flips through the new envelopes, some of them muted, sickly pastels; others, fine linen stationary. He traces the lines of the handwriting with his fingers, the edges of the cards cool and sharp against his skin.

The letters are all variations on the same theme: _I __am __so __sorry __to __hear __of __(his) __passing, __(he) __helped __me __when __no __one __else __could, __I __will __miss __(him), __I __will __keep __(him) __in __my __prayers. _Each letter spills out over him, the swirls of handwriting turning from blue ink to cold steel, every word ripping away the scabs engulfing his heart.

He feels it keenly now, this double-edged blade of caring held by everyone he sees, their sad, kind gazes and pitying smiles slicing him open to his core. Mrs. Hudson, flitting about the flat with extra tea and biscuits and never once saying _not __your __housekeeper_. Sarah, looking at him not with soft, open wanting, as if his eyes were rumpled bedsheets to play in, but like he was a wound to be sterilized and bandaged.

(His) words from the nights of Moriarty's games, begun with another envelope so long ago, ring in his ears: _Will __caring __about __them __help __save __them?_

_No_, he thinks now. _It __hurts. __Please __don't __touch __me. __Please __just __let __me __go. __Let __me __pretend __a __little __longer __that __I __am __normal __and __fine. __Let __me __pretend __I'm __not __losing __my __mind. __I __will __only __weigh __you __down. __Please __let __me __drown. __I __don't __want __to __come __up __for __air __because __when __I __do __(he's) __not __there __because __he __died __for __me __and I __can't __breathe __without __(him)._

Bundling up the thick stacks of cards, he tosses them into the rubbish bin, unread.

* * *

><p>Among the swaths of ivory, peach, and pink, the delphiniums are striking: long, strong, yet slender stalks, blossoms spiraling up the center in a double helix. The flowers are bright stars of violet and indigo, brash, alien in their intensity. The stems cascade over the black lacquered wood, their deep blue complementing the dark surface.<p>

John stands alone at (his) coffin, half an hour before the visitation begins. His grey suit and tie, not worn since Harry and Clara's wedding, feel odd on his body after so many years in military fatigues or comfortable jumpers. His leg throbs, and he shifts more of his weight to his silver cane.

It is the first time they have been alone together since That Day, and John has no idea what to say. (He) had always been the one better, faster with thoughts, weaving all the little puzzles of words he found at crime scenes into a clear, perfect picture; and then there John was, reacting to (his) beautiful words with ones of his own: _brilliant, __amazing, __fantastic_. It was always because of (him) that John wanted to speak, to encourage (him) so he could feel the web of wild magic envelop him.

John's ears strain against the silence, aching to hear (him) say he's an idiot, or complain that they're out of milk again, or yell nonsense at the telly. There is only his quiet breathing, the faint whispers of the heating system.

He rests his hand on the coffin lid, just above (his) feet, marking the glossy surface with a trail of fingerprints. Slowly, John brushes his hand up its length, ghosting lightly over each piece of (his) body:

(his) long feet that slapped through alleyways, toes curled up on the sofa, leaving just enough room for him to sit beside. (His) impossibly tall legs, strides that took three of his steps to match. (His) lithe, pale hands that coaxed music out of a violin for him. (His) chest, the laughter that once burst it open. (His) delicate, yet bold mouth, curled into a smile at the thought of danger, at the praise he gave (him). (His) piercing eyes, twin silver suns that shone only for him. (His) brain like a thousand supernovas exploding at once, that filled his life with light.

His hand drifts down again to the spot above (his) chest, pressing his palm into the wood, as if trying to clutch (his) heart through the solid wood. John wants nothing more than to open the casket, crawl in beside (him), close his eyes, and shut the lid.

Above his hand rests the casket spray, the delphiniums' sapphire blue reflecting in the polished lid like small pools of water. He fingers the petals, soft and cool under his touch.

He plucks one of the blooms from its stem, cupping it in his hand. The blossom is light, almost weightless against his skin. John's fingers close around it, squeezing hard, crushing the petals. When he opens them again, black lines of bruises crisscross the flower's folds, staining his palm blue with its blood. He stares at the blue lines in his palm, the juice seeping into the wrinkles of his skin. John lets the flower slip through his fingers to the floor, a wilted, crumpled, broken mess.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This chapter shares its title with a song by Greg Greenway. <strong>

**The delphinium is more commonly known as the larkspur.**


	8. Tearing a Hole

**AN: John's going into The Really Bad Place. Definitely a Bit Not Good. Be warned.**

**Content warning: severe suicidal ideation, drug use, description of death by blunt force trauma, description of death by air embolism, very disturbing imagery.**

* * *

><p>The first time After that John thinks of dying is the first morning. He is twisted and cramped on the sofa, body fetal, head wrenched back, as if he had been screaming in his sleep. Everything aches: muscles rigid, burnt-out, the leather sticky and hot against his skin.<p>

John opens his eyes, squinting against the morning light. Their breakfast dishes are still in the sink, laptops cracked open on the sitting room table, books and newspaper clippings strewn about the floor. The sun still streams through the curtains, catching particles of dust in its light. John watches them float aimlessly, pass from shadow to light to shadow again.

The Earth has not stopped, has not let half of itself freeze to absolute zero, the other half burn against the sun. The molecules of the universe haven't decided to disintegrate. No floods, earthquakes, wars, hurricanes disturb the silence of their flat.

The world simply continues on as it has for ages, and would do so for ages onward. And every cell in John's body screams that this is utterly, utterly wrong.

John pushes himself up, sits on the edge of the sofa, cradling his aching head in his hands. His skin twitches against the new hole torn inside him, the shape's grey, ragged edges sliding against him. He is fragile, brittle as a cracked plate.

His legs stiff and tired beneath him, he stands, walks to the fireplace, stares at the mirror above the mantel. His eyes are sunken, bloodshot, the once-vibrant blue washed out. His forehead has new, deep wrinkles, his throat unshaven and sharp, a long, red sleep mark cutting across his cheek. His scarred shoulder is a tight, hot spark of pain.

Gingerly, he runs his hands over himself, feeling the pulse points gently throbbing in his neck. John doesn't understand how he can exist in this world when (he) does not, why his body is not cold and waxy, why he has not simply vanished like the dust in the sunlight.

His hand drifts down to his pistol, still on the mantel from the night before. When he touches the loaded pistol, something electric crackles underneath his skin, a low vibrating hum that stops his heart. His finger twitches over the trigger, caught like raw iron on a magnet.

Ten minutes later, he finally pulls his hand away.

* * *

><p>Two months After, John meets Mike Stamford for coffee. John rounds the corner, stepping on the grounds of Bart's for the first time Since. When the grey building rises before him, twenty meters of solid stone, John stops, frozen in the middle of the pavement.<p>

The concrete beneath him is dry now, unmarked by blood. He hears no screaming, urgent voices; no sirens; no trolley carrying (him) away; only streaks of London dirt, a few stray leaves, patches of gum.

John stares at the spot where (he) had landed, passers-by glaring at him as he blocks their path, the point of impact crisscrossed by thousands of feet who had no idea what happened here. John steps slowly, gripping the handle of his cane, feet planting on the mark where (he) fell. He feels as if he is stepping on his own grave.

John looks at the top of the building, remembering the echo of a dark figure silhouetted against the sky. He sees himself on the roof, balancing on the edge, the smallness of the ground below,

gravity tearing at his heart as he steps, falls, the wind whipping his hair, rushing in his ears,

the world pulling him back against itself, his body almost weightless for one second, then another—

—then the blunt slam against the pavement, the ground shattering his chest, then his back, his organs crushed under their own weight.

The sound, the smack, the stillness. The sudden, final rush of air. An instant.

The blood on his face. His neck, struck back as if broken.

John stands in this place for what seems like hours. Only when Mike calls his name for the third time does John break himself away.

* * *

><p>John finds the needle five months After.<p>

It was during another long, dry spell that (he) started using again. The days were achingly slow, a bare smattering of cases, nothing like the Game that gave (him) such a terrible thrill. After those frenzied days, five cases in mere days, the time after felt like sudden starvation.

And yet, despite this, (he) remained eerily unfazed, hadn't shot up the furniture, nor harassed Lestrade for new cases, nor called Mycroft simply to insult him about his diet.

The day John came home early from the surgery to find (him) lying on the sofa, the spent needle still in his hand, was when he knew exactly why. Later, John dragged (him) room by room through the flat, making (him) reveal (his) stash: small zip bags of cocaine and spare syringes hidden under the floorboards, in false-bottomed drawers, even taped to the inside of the skull.

John finds it on the bookshelf while looking for their fold-away map, the small leather case peeking out from its hiding place behind the _London __A-Z_ and the _OED_: worn, plain brown leather, creased with dust, the size and shape of an eyeglass case.

Nestled inside the burgundy lining is a thick-tipped syringe, antique glass and curved metal, the needle faintly rusted from age and disuse. He runs his finger over the instrument, the cool, hard glass contrasting with the soft padding.

He remembers (his) face from that day: pupils blown, grey gaze dreamy and vacant. Underneath, (his) mind—so raw, ragged that it sliced into itself to feel—suddenly stilled, sharpened by the chemical that flowed through (his) blood, almost peaceful in its euphoria. John had thought then that he would never be so desperate to want to run away from his own mind.

He picks up the empty syringe, feeling its heft, the tube of glass shining in the soft light of the flat. He pushes back the sleeve of his jumper, his forearm suddenly cool, goosefleshed.

_(ugh)_

Grasping the syringe, he brushes the needle against the crook of his elbow, the blue river of the Median cubital vein, presses the sharp edge against his soft flesh, just to the edge of breaking.

_(breathing)_

The air around him thickens, the solution of oxygen, nitrogen—invisible, everywhere, essential—pressing into him, closing around his body like a vise.

_(breathing's)_

John imagines driving the plunger home, shooting the emptiness into him, the air bubble racing through his bloodstream, lodging in his heart, stopping it.

_(boring)_

When he finally draws the needle away from his skin, his hand shakes, leaving small pinpricks of blood behind.

* * *

><p>John steps into the alley, gravel crunching under his feet, rubbish from skips spitting out its smell. He turns up the collar of his jacket, the wind cutting straight through to the empty hollow at the small of his back.<p>

Six months After, John starts walking through the city at night, down back alleys, by the train tracks, in the tramway, to the Vauxhall Arches; all the places they had traveled together.

The air around him crackles with silence, broken only by the buzzing of the street lamps. The space next to him, once filled by (his) solid warmth, is cold and sharp, a fine blade glinting in the moonlight.

With every step he takes, John moves closer to the night, to the memory of them playing in the shadows: (his) quick strides just a pace above John's steady run, their breaths caught and flung into the darkness. Their blood pumping together, eyes blazing and wild, thick with adrenaline and delight. Their souls sparking between them like quicksilver, running not only toward danger but toward each other in a fierce, wild dance only they understood.

Now he runs headlong in the void, alone, limping, unarmed, rending open his heart on the battlefield. He aches for the hot, wet smell of blood, for the night to swallow him whole. He is desperate for the feel of a muzzle against his temple, a knife to his throat, even the weight of semtex on his chest; the hot flash / slice / blast, then the welcoming, final blackness. Then John could be with (him) again, run together through that never-ending night.

But the darkness senses his desperation, and leaves him be.

After two weeks of nightwalking, alone and untouched, John gives up trying.

Nothing happens to him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: In the first section, the cracked plate metaphor is from Zora Neale Hurston's <em>Their <em>_Eyes __Were __Watching __God_.**

**The title references a line from the song "Hurt," by Nine Inch Nails (as sung by Johnny Cash).**

**Thanks to the following Tumblrfolk for your ideas for Sherlock's special hiding places: ihsotas, bbcsherlockftw, batty4u, betterthanapunchtotheface, geekykristie, introducealittleanarchy, havetardiswilltravel, and jammmlock.**


	9. The Hinterland of Devotion

**Content warning: disturbing imagery, violent actions, sickness, vague suicidal ideation, blood**

* * *

><p>The wheat ripples, unfolding in waves of ochre, umber, flax. A jagged brown path arcs through the golden ground, vicious slashes of mud and grass. Overhead, the moon is mottled by blue-black streaks of clouds. A long, thick line of crows hover silently above the earth.<p>

John stares at the painting as he sits, three months After, in the waiting room of Ella's office. John stopped seeing her after the night he shot the cabbie, when he exchanged his limp for danger. Although he'd still had nightmares of Afghanistan, they steadily decreased to only a smattering the longer John lived with (him). But that was Before.

The room is designed to be full of soft, soothing things. Slender floor lamps casting their ivory glow, the windowsill lined with pots of ivy, African violets. Framed photographs of lilies and orchids, lit in careful black-and-white. More Van Gogh; irises, almond blossoms, peach trees. And, on the wall opposite him, the wheat field.

John had been in fields like this once, on the Baskerville case, when they left the tall, hard lines of London for the wide, sweeping hills of Dartmoor. Against the swirl of grass and the vast, empty sky, with his long, lean lines and dark coat rippling in the wind, (he) seemed to John to be less of a man and more like one of the spirits that haunted the land.

The wheat is clawed onto the canvas, each brush stroke shivering as if painted by a dying hand. In his mind, John walks through the painted field, the sky threatening and heavy with rain. The wheat whips against his body, cutting into his limbs, his feet sliding and slipping on the thick muddy path.

He lies down in the middle of the field, the stalks pooling around his body until he is invisible, the blackened sky a ragged circle, the ground seeping its cold into him.

The line of crows, their bodies heavy, shining black in the moonlight, dip down into the hole where his body lies. One by one, they tear a piece of his heart away, carrying it into the night, up to the stars. Each morsel, a red, raw nugget of guilt, still beats in the crows' beaks. His body, now still, sinks into the mud to rot.

The clock on the wall ticks. The white noise machine in the corner mists the room with silence, masking Ella's voice in her consulting room. His heart is lodged in his throat, choking off his words.

He stands, gathers his coat, and leaves before Ella opens her door.

* * *

><p>The tremor starts with a touch of stiffness the first day After, a slow-building tightness in his thigh. John is in the kitchen, shuffling from cabinet to cabinet in search of a clean mug. He presses his hand against his leg, trying to rub away the pain from That Day.<p>

The teakettle hums on the stove, the metal clinking against the burner, as he fishes out a tea bag from the drawer. The ache spreads from his thigh, encompassing his entire leg. He digs his hands into his flesh, trying to rip the pain out from under his fingers. The teakettle starts to whistle, shooting hot steam through the air.

John steps towards the stove, his RAMC mug in hand, when it happens: pain spasms, shooting through his leg as it buckles underneath him. He stutter-steps, collapsing, the mug shattering on the floor.

Sitting in a crumpled heap, John stares down at his useless leg folded beneath him, gritting his teeth. The kettle shakes and shivers, the shrillness piercing the room. Shards of ceramic dig into his leg, sending more pain into his quivering flesh. He massages the muscles, willing them to still again, but they only curl tighter under his palm, resisting any comfort.

When he tries to stand on his leg, it fails again, as weak as a newborn foal's, tears prickling the back of his eyes _(please God not again I can't move without you please come back and take this pain away)._

Taking a shaky breath, John hoists himself up on his good leg, grabbing onto the table, then hops on his leg to the stove, shutting off the burner. The kettle's whistle quickly dies. He hops around the table, through the side door to the stairs, his body heaving with every jump. Gripping the banister and the wall, he drags his tired body up the steps.

He finally reaches his closet, finding the cane at the very back. Covered in a thick layer of dust, the handle is smooth and solid in his hand, the aluminum feather-light. Gingerly, he places more of his weight on it, taking a tentative step. His leg shivers, but holds fast, his body stiff and straight. Slowly, he makes his way downstairs, the cane's click a brittle echo in the empty flat.

The remnants of his mug lay scattered over the kitchen when he returns. A fragment of ceramic rests beside his foot, and he stoops down, plucking it from the floor. Bold, black letters on a red rivulet: _in arduis_. Slowly, he wraps his fingers around the sharp edges, clenching the clay in his hand until he bleeds.

* * *

><p>John lies on the sofa, buried underneath every woolen blanket they own, surrounded by half-empty mugs of tea and piles of tissues, the rubbish bin at the ready beside him. After a solid week of 12-hour days at the surgery, surrounded by disease, infection was inevitable.<p>

His lungs are full, breath thick and wet in his throat, raw from stomach acid and bile. John twitches, his eyes weak, glassy, pale. His limbs shake, skin at once clammy with cold and damp with sweat, hair matted to his face.

His head throbs and body aches, his blood swamping his body in fire as it battles against itself. John feels the war raging inside his very skin, his leukocytes surrounding and devouring the pain.

In the midst of his fever, John clutches his phone like an anchor, hands taut from the strain, the screen illuminating the message he holds close to his chest:

_Have found Moriarty.  
>Can end it here, stop him for good.<br>I knew this was coming.  
>I am sorry.<br>Mycroft will handle arrangements.  
>Goodbye, John.<br>Your friend,_

_SH_

John stares at the words that he had read every day for the past nine months. His shaking fingers trace the shape of each individual letter, as if trying to coax the sound out of them, the deep, wry voice he would never hear again. He feels (his) hands surrounding his, softly pressing the keys, long, cool fingers against his blazing skin.

He remembers the moment when his phone had beeped That Day, when (his) last message came through to him, the phone in his pocket vibrating against him, like (his) fingers touching him one more time: the slow, roiling sick freezing in his gut, a thin, shivering line of terror breaking him open, the air turning crystalline and sharp; he ran, his breath screaming in his lungs, his heart beating with terrible thunder as he ran, faster than he had ever run, shattering the icy air around him, leaving a trail of fear in his wake as he ran, but not fast enough...

John looks across the room at the marble urn resting on the mantel, its surface black, impassive, almost disappearing in the darkness. Behind his locked door, he hears Mrs. Hudson's soft knocking. His cell phone vibrates; another message from Sarah, offering to come by. He ignores them both.

He does not deserve their kindness, their care. This breath in his lungs, the sound of his heart is too much to hear, too much of a gift to bear, one he doesn't deserve because _he didn't keep (him) safe;_

_he is a doctor and solider and invaded Afghanistan all on his own and faced down bombers and snipers and serial killers and archenemies and run to the lip of madness with (him) and __**he didn't keep (him) safe**_,

and he wants nothing more than to fall, for his own body to burn him alive, its shadow spreading and covering him completely until he is a pile of ash.

John sinks deeper under the weight of the blankets, letting the sickness sear through him as he slips into unconsciousness.

The little deaths inside of him are almost a blessing.

* * *

><p>Ten months After, John stands in the middle of the kitchen, a puddle of milk steadily creeping over the floor, the bottle split down its length.<p>

The bags were too heavy from the start; too many things trapped in too few bags. It was only a short walk from the market, but by the time John started up the stairs, the bags began to fray, the flimsy plastic stretching and breaking under its own weight.

The mess seeps into the dark floor, dented cans rolling to the corners of the kitchen, the broken, glass jars littered around his feet.

His fists clench at his side, clutching the shreds of the broken bags. He stares at his reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator, his image mottled, blurry, twisted. He breathes hard, half-sighing, half-growling, chest tight and hot, his anger spiraling outward at everything: the inept baggers and the cheap plastic, his trembling hand and throbbing leg, (his) frozen ashes and Moriarty's bloody bones.

He wants to feel flesh give and break under his hands like the shredded bags, make it bleed and bruise. He wants to dig up Moriarty's corpse and tear it apart. He wants to beat his hands against (his) body until they are broken, but it doesn't matter what he wants or what he does—(he) will never welcome him home again, never sit with him on the sofa, never blather on about crap telly, never argue or laugh with him, never see his body taut as an iron string, hands shaking with _why did you do this, why did you hurt me, why did you leave me, why did you die—_

and John picks up one of the jars, flings it across the room with all of his strength, his arm flying out like a punch, the glass shattering against the refrigerator, dark blotches of tomato sauce splattering the walls, the floors, his face. He pulls up more cans from the wreckage, throwing them at his reflection, all the while screaming, a sound with no top and no bottom, only an echoing, terrible pool of sorrow.

He falls to the floor, hunched over, his face in his hands, covered with red. The milk seeps into his jeans as he kneels, turning his skin cold, his breath wet in his throat, until he is finally still.

Pushing himself up on all fours, John gingerly picks out the jagged chunks of glass, glinting in the harsh light of the overheads, and slips the pieces in the rubbish bin. Reaching for the dishtowel, he slowly mops up the ruin left behind, scrubbing and crying, fine shards of glass impaling his useless hands, his reflection in the fridge dented and broken.

By the time he is finished, the rag is a sodden, red mess, stained with milk and tears, sauce and blood. He wrings it out in the sink until there are no drops left.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The title references a lyric from the Sade song, "Soldier of Love." The "echoing pool of sorrow" phrase is from Toni Morrison's <strong>_**Sula**_**. The second section includes a variation on a line from Rainer Maria Rilke's "Before the Beginning."**

**Thanks to the following Tumblrfolk for their suggestions on the formatting of Sherlock's message to John: orangeorigami, batty4u, msindierock, wecantgiggleitsacrimescene, and miss-lestrade.**


	10. Palimpsest

**Content warning: grief, vague suicidal ideation (sort of)**

* * *

><p>Seven months After, John stands at the foot of the bed, looking at the lump of sheets twisted on the mattress, his throat raw from screaming. The clock on his nightstand reads three a.m. Moonlight streams through his bedroom windows, filling the room with a soft blue glow.<p>

He reaches across the bed, unfurling the bundle of fabric: fitted sheet, flat sheet, thin cotton blanket. John straightens the mattress pad, half-pulled away from its moorings.

The knowledge was ingrained in him for years, the way to make a bed: how to change the linens after a patient died, how to pull the sheet in one tug to shift a person in bed, how to wrap a bloodied body on the battlefield. When he returned to London, it became a nightly ritual, his hands pulling apart the tangled mess of his nightmares, folding them out smooth again.

John thrusts his fist into the pocket of the fitted sheet, his hand making a thump like the sound of hitting someone in the chest, snapping it into place. Flat sheet next, pulled tight across, even lengths along the right and left, tucked between the mattress layers, then the blanket on top. He folds the corners like origami, neat, sharp creases on the edges; then straightens the pillows, tucking under the loose ends of the cases.

The bed is as sterile and blank as a marble slab. Drawing the layers back, he slips his body into the bed, pulling the covers to his chest. His fingers fit into the deep welts on the edge of the sheet, a set of wrinkles in the shape of his dreaming, clawing hands.

* * *

><p>Every day After, the sun breaks, rises, falls in the sky. The earth tilts its head towards the sun, and it is summer; pulls its face away, and it is winter. His mornings slide into one another, a seamless line of wake-tea-toast-shower-shave-dress.<p>

John stares at himself in his bedroom mirror, picks a stray bit of lint from his cardigan, flicking it away with his fingers. His frown lines are deep, hard, three long wrinkles permanently etched across his forehead. His hair, once long and wisping around his ears, is military short again.

He set his body in this rigid line before, for years in Afghanistan and months in London, every street, every alley hiding a sniper, an IED, a gentle touch, a pitying word. As a soldier, as a doctor, he knew that panic, terror, grief were weaknesses to functioning. Panic on the battlefield, and you were liable to get your head blown off, or your comrade's; panic in the operating theater, and you could nick an artery, cut too deep, let the patient bleed out on the table. Emotion was to be controlled, ignored, swallowed to survive.

But when they met at Bart's, (his) words slipped under the armor bolted to John's skin, touched him down to his heart, every one of his secrets held in (his) hands. With each chase, each moment in the night, his armor slowly slipped away, his limbs, eyes, even his hair relaxing, softening into their world like new, tender shoots. He finally felt _at __ease_: home, rooted, grounded, in the exact place he needed to be, at (his) side with a mug of tea, an encouraging word, a loaded pistol.

John looks at the empty space above his reflection, just up over his shoulder, the mark where (his) grey eyes should be.

Twisting his neck, he shrugs his shoulders, the tendons in his throat cracking. John's skin slowly, slowly resets, his face starching and ironing itself into place. His jaw clenches, his bright eyes receding into his skull, his bones hardening into steel. His muscles align into something like attention, into something like he knows where he is going. He swallows the sharp lump of his sorrow, letting it sink along with the others into a jagged, swirling mass at the bottom of his stomach.

His face looks normal to anyone who does not observe, but only sees. Gait terse and sharp, John steps out into the street alone.

* * *

><p>Three months After, John sits huddled at his laptop, wrapped in his black field jacket, browser open to his blog. The last entry dates to a week Before, when John finally wrote up their previous case, the page filled with their comments back and forth. As usual, the conversation devolved into an argument about whose turn it was to buy milk.<p>

He'd had an audience, of a sort: Harry, Sarah, the Yarders, who read his blog for the chance to peer into their strange fishbowl, to see how the hell anyone was able to live with (him). John was the insider, the official blogger embedded in the battlefield of (his) life.

(He) hadn't understood John's need to, as (he) called it, _romanticize_ their cases, preferring the clinical, logical outlining of deductions. But for John, his blog was a touchstone, a reminder to himself that this new, strange, adventurous life was actually happening to _him_, that it wasn't simply a mirage that would disappear one morning.

John begins to type, pecking out the words:

_Sherlock Holmes was my best and wisest friend. My heart is heavy as I type this. But it's my duty, I suppose, to explain what happened_

John stops, blinks, frowns, his fingers twitching over the keys. The cursor sits patiently on the page. His scar burns in his shoulder, aching against the chill of the flat. His heart strains inside him, as if trying to untangle itself from a vicious knot.

_God, I don't know what to say. I don't know where to go. I'm not supposed to be writing this. You're supposed to be here. _

_You fucking wanker. You damned bloody idiot._

_I would have done it for you, you know. Killed Moriarty for you. If I could have kept you here. I would have gone with you, but you fucking left me. You left me for him, and for the bloody Game, and you are a selfish fucking bastard. _

_I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at that. You left me alone the first night we met. Left me there with my leg in the middle of Brixton. I had to ask Donovan for a cab, you know that? _

_She told me to stay away from you. She told me to go get a hobby, start up fishing, model trains. _

_I can't imagine where I'd be if I had listened to her. I don't want to. But I never thought I'd be here. I never thought you'd leave and never come back._

_I hate you. And I miss you. And I hate you. And you're dead._

_God. _

_I wish you were here. I wish you were here. I wish I could hear even half your breath. I'd give back every bloody second of my life just to have you here. I'd let myself get shot again and bleed out in the street if it would bring you back. _

_God, please come back. I was better for you. I was better because of you. And you're not here and everything smells and looks and feels like you and nobody understands and every time I blink I can't see anything but your dying eyes staring back at me and I can't remember the way your voice sounded and I don't know what to do._

_Please come back. Please come back come back come back come back come back please please please please_

His fingers stab at the keys, the rhythm growing tight and fast, until the page is filled with nothing but this single word, his fingers slowly collapsing into silence.

Inside his chest, his heart still beats, his breath still moving through his broken throat.

He stares at the at the words on the page. The cursor disappears in and out. With one shaking finger, John presses the backspace key over and over, the words unwinding, eaten, until nothing is left but blankness.

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><p><strong>AN: A palimpsest is a manuscript page from a scroll or book from which the text has been scraped off and which can be used again (Wikipedia). The "starched and ironed face" metaphor is from Zora Neale Hurston's <em>Their <em>_Eyes __Were __Watching __God_.**


	11. Zero Circle

**Content ****warning: ****grief, ****strange ****imagery, vague suicidal ideation (sort of).**

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><p>One year After, John walks, his jacket pulled around his ears, hands shoved in his pockets, cane clicking on the pavement. He has called off from the surgery, turned off his mobile, declined offers from Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, Lestrade to spend the day with him. This day is for (him) alone.<p>

John limps through the city, past the lorries and buses, the ubiquitous black cabs they had taken so many times together; past their Chinese takeaway and Angelo's, past the National and through Trafalgar Square and over the Millennium Bridge and back; wandering all day until he finds himself back at his old flat.

He stares up at the small windows, a vacancy sign in the corner, the glass still covered in the faded curtains that he had seen from the other side, trapped in a bland nothingness that had cut his whole life in two. The cool wind slips through his jacket and he shivers, drawing it tighter around him. The thin shadow of his former self peers out from behind the curtains and settles silently beneath his skin, looking out from his broken eyes.

He tastes the echo of cheap tea in his mouth, a single apple for breakfast, the thin mattress under his back. He feels the chill from the old radiator; the cracked linoleum under his feet. He breathes the dry, flat air that coalesced around his nightmares in this sea of beige, the days filled with a muffled, warbling agony that pressed in on him from all sides. This place of desperate wishes, where he sealed himself shut to everything but the pain of living.

He fingers the vial of (his) bones in his pocket, the glass slowly worn down with age, the rubber stopper brittle and cracking.

His body is a single, raw nerve unsheathed. The bottom of his bones ache, his skin prickling from the emptiness at his side. He tastes the faint residue of danger on his lips, shining like sugar.

His cane clicks in a constant drumming, his hands twitching, yearning to clutch at (his) hand, or at Moriarty's dead throat. His scar thrums, shudders, tries to unknot itself into healed flesh.

He hungers to slip back through time, to the days when he never saw (his) dying eyes staring back at him, when he never ran through the sweet London night, when he never knew (his) name.

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><p>Everything itches inside John when he returns to Baker Street, his leg throbbing, the pain of it yoked to his body. He lies down on the sofa, fitting his body into the space where (he) once breathed and slept and sulked and smiled.<p>

(His) things, as they always had, surround him: the microscope that cradled the soft pools of (his) eyes; the dressing gown that swirled around (his) body; the violin that sung the dark parts of (his) soul. Even after John had moved into the flat so long ago, it was always (his) things, (his) cases, (his) energy filling it to the brim. Now all of it sits discarded, strewn about the flat like wreckage, each object aching from days of sitting, waiting to be picked up by a set of slender fingers, made into something useful and beautiful.

He longs to feel (his) voice on his skin, calming his trembling, wounded limbs, breathing life back into him, moulding him back from this broken mess into fineness, like clay shaped into a strong vessel. But no one cries out for him, beckons him into the night with the promise of danger. No one needs his steady, solid hands, or the touch of his words on (his) heart.

The pieces of (his) life close in on John, the hundreds of days of grief like tiny bullets tearing into him. Spiraling tight around him, the memories choke John in their grip, clamping against his bones until they burn. The flash of (his) eyes swamps his vision, the smell of (his) blood fills his nostrils, the rumbling of (his) voice floods his ears.

He trembles on the sofa, the searing pain freezing him in place. The molecules of (his) skin swirl around John, the dust of (him) lodging like shards of gravel in his lungs. All the periphery of (his) life feels like alcohol on his parched throat, only worsening his thirst for (him). Every thing he sees, from (his) skull on the mantel to (his) Union Jack cushion, reminds John that his heart is still splattered on the pavement in front of Bart's, his soul burned to ash with (his) bones, his breath snatched in the wind along with (his).

The room echoes in a bright, fierce cacophony, the world around him screaming a sound like a broken violin, like a body ripped apart, like a dog howling for its master, and the same sound comes from John's throat, a single, pure note of hollow need, ringing terrible and fine in his chest.

He screws his eyes shut, presses his hands to his ears, the noise growing louder. The sound stretches before him in a line of solid pain, not of emptiness or of loneliness, but the pain of _too __much_, of _everywhere_, never stopping, growing stronger and stronger until his heart explodes inside him, his body breaking into white like a frozen bottle shattering apart.

When he snaps open his eyes, a perfect almost-silence surrounds him. He floats in an endless, all-encompassing emptiness, like the plains of the Afghan desert, the shroud of London fog, the bleakness of the Moors, the bare expanse of (his) bones.

He holds out his hands, clutching the withered husk of his life in his fingers, his tears spilling into the empty space. Slowly, his spirit dissolves, alone, into this place beyond pain, the blank void at the bottom side of his soul where nothing lives, only waits.

Behind his eyes, the last, faint glimmer of light flashes for one moment, then dies.

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><p>Thirteen months After, John stands before the mantel, holding (his) urn, hands cupped around the marble teardrop. The black surface glints in the last remnants of evening light that slip through the windows. John closes his eyes, presses his forehead to the carved letters of (his) name, his thoughts flowing from warm skin to cold stone:<p>

_I'm sorry. I wish I could stay. It hurts too much to stay. I wish I could remember how to be brave. I know I've survived more than this. I know I've fought so hard before. But I'm tired of fighting. I can't save myself anymore._

_All I want to do is be with you. I can't keep pretending that I know where I'm going when all I want to do is crawl into a hole and die. I don't know how to live anymore without you. I'm not sure I want to._

_I miss you more than anyone in the world. I miss you more than my own life. I wish I knew how to delete things, like you did. I wish I knew how to stop this pain. _

_I never thought I'd run away from you. From us. But this is the only way. Maybe I'll have some peace now. Maybe if I can forget you, I can forget that I loved you._

_I did love you, you know. I still do. I know I never said it, but I hope you felt it. I know you never thought you deserved love, but you did. You were my hero. I know you never believed in them, but I did. _

_I always believed in you. _

_You're my best friend. You're my only friend. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I failed you. I'm sorry I didn't protect you. I'm sorry I didn't save you._

_Please forgive me._

John opens his eyes, staring at the black marble. It is the blackness of the inside of coffins, the blackness of burning bones, the blackness in a needle's hollow tip. It is the blackness of black holes and the spaces between galaxies. It is the blackness of (his) hair, the blackness of (his) suit, the blackness of (his) pupils blown wide and still.

He picks up the urn, a solid, cold weight in his hands as he cradles (his) ashes in his arms. He sets the urn on the sitting room table, draped in white sheets like the rest of the furniture. Carefully, he slips it into its cardboard box, nestling it in the soft packing material, then seals the lid shut.

He looks around the room one more time at the remnants of what once was his home, all the relics of (his) life covered in blankness. He catches his face in the mirror as he turns, his eyes hard, flat stones, set in a thousand-yard stare.

Slowly, the edges of his skin turn transparent, fading into shadow, his breath shriveling to a whisper. The thin tendrils of his body, shimmering like spun silver, trail and wither into the empty flat. The last atoms of his heart, frozen and shivering, break like crystal in his hands.

Picking (him) up in one hand, gripping his cane with the other, John limps down the seventeen stairs, out the door of Baker Street to the taxi below, waiting to take him back to his old flat.

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><p><strong>AN: My thanks to the brilliant and talented Mirith Griffin, Kathrina (Behind Tinted Glass), and Leigh Ann (I'd Rather Be Reading) for their assistance on this difficult chapter. Also, thanks to Frederick in Flux (on Tumblr) for the "sea of beige" metaphor in the first section.<strong>

**The title references the Rumi poem of the same name. In the world of planimeters, the zero circle is a term meant to describe a wheel that spins, but isn't rolling forward or backward-all spin, no progress.**

**The "taste of sugar" phrase in the second section is taken from the Indigo Girls song "Mystery."**

**The "breaking into white" image is from the Jan Beatty poem, "How I Fell in Love in Pittsburgh."**


	12. The Colder Water

**AN (12/15/2011): After some reflection, I have revised significant portions of _After Life_, which includes adding this chapter, tweaking bits of all chapters, or rewriting some chapters entirely.**

**So if you've read this before, you'll want to read it again, starting from the beginning. Consider this new version to be the second edition, or perhaps the director's cut. All comments made before 12/15/2011 are for the first edition.**

**Content warning: grief**

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><p>Now, every day After, it is this:<p>

John slowly climbs the stairs to his flat, his cane clicking on the hollow steps. He fumbles in his pocket for keys, pushes open the cheap wooden door, the hinges swinging silently shut behind him. The room is a solid mass of beige and cream and sand, broken only by the dark wood of his furniture.

He drops his keys and surgery ID on the empty desk, hanging his jacket over the chair. He collapses on the seat, pulling off his shoes and socks, propping his cane against the desk. His body is taut and gaunt, bags under his eyes like deep bruises. He holds his head in his hands, trying to rub the wrinkles from his face and the throb from his eyes.

Across the room, (his) urn rests on his nightstand, the marble a black hole in the corner of the room. Limping to the window, he shuts the curtains against the sky, light faintly seeping through the fabric. He pulls the bedclothes back, slipping his tired, aching body under the blankets. The thin mattress sags under his weight, curving his body fetal.

Carefully, he picks up (his) urn and wraps his weary body around it, his warmth disappearing into the cold stone. He caresses the patterns of the marble; the jagged, broken lines of violet blood, the silver rivers coursing through the blackness. His fingers trace the lines of (his) name. The tiny letters ripple against his skin like a shivering breath. Closing his eyes, he clutches (his) bones against his chest, his heartbeat silent in the dark.

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><p><strong>AN: The title references a line from the Damien Rice song, "The Blower's Daughter."<strong>

**Thank you all for reading/commenting/recommending/bookmarking, and for your patience in waiting for updates. Your energy has sustained me! If you've been holding off on commenting until the end, please don't hesitate to share your thoughts. I'd love to hear what you think!**

**This series continues with _After Death_, a chronicle of Sherlock's post-Reichenbach life on the run with his grief and guilt. Don't worry, they will reunite in the third and final story, _After Love_.**


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